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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29749791">queen of queens</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/celicalms/pseuds/celicalms'>celicalms</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Discussions of mental illness, Established Relationship, F/M, Islamophobia, New York, Nonbinary Character, Queerphobia, Racism, Xenophobia, yep. back at it again with congressfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:28:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29749791</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/celicalms/pseuds/celicalms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Lysithea's birthday, and she and Cyril are tasked to canvass in Queens for Claude's campaign. Cyril has other ideas.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Cysithea Week 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>queen of queens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy birthday to my baby girl lysithea! all the artwork included in this fic is by me too :3c</p>
<p>this is actually the last chapter of act1 of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594698/chapters/70080831">HERE TO STAY</a>, a story about claude running for congress in new york. if you like politics and brown boys starting chaos, then you should check that out! if you're already following the main story, a heads up that there are minor lore spoilers/drops in here, but I don't think it's too ridiculous. a lil taste for the later chapters. just putting that out there though, if you like things in chronological order! </p>
<p>I wanted to publish this chapter as a standalone, since it'll be a while before we get to this scene. it will still be included in the main story too. </p>
<p>this is best read while listening to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Owkk_gNffJU">oh my by anik khan</a>. trust me</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>“I come from the borough of Queens, to carry a message. You’re nothing less that of a queen, it’s time you accept it!”</p>
<p>Cyril cranks the volume up, bouncing his head to the rhythmic tabla and snare drum combo of the track. His Camry screeches to the front of Lysithea’s apartment building, seemingly dipped in silver as the morning sunlight reflects off the long sheets of glass scaling the tower. The car windows are rolled down as today is an unusually warm day for late February. <em>And that’s why we need the Green New Deal,</em> he thinks to himself jokingly, parroting one of Claude’s talking points.</p>
<p>He knows Lysithea is watching for his car from floors above, but he still honks his horn briskly just to have his presence known. Not to her, though.</p>
<p>
  <em>What’s a middle-class looking car doing lost in Westchester?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Why’s this rude boy blasting music and disrupting the white peace with his noise?</em>
</p>
<p>Cyril grins, retorting cockily to this fictional socialite.</p>
<p>
  <em>Well, what’s it to you? </em>
</p>
<p>The cup holder awkwardly props up his phone, currently open on the Maps app. Cyril knows the journey by heart, but he likes to keep it open to estimate his arrival time. He’d prefer not to show up late and make a fool of himself around others, especially Lysithea. Unlike Claude.</p>
<p>Cyril instead switches to the Photos app and zooms in on his mirror selfies from earlier this morning, inspecting every inch of the photo. The basic white campaign T-shirt is a necessity since they’ll be working, but the red from the logo ties well with his slightly-oversized red jacket, adorned with a geometric and floral embroidery. He had spotted the jacket among the clearance racks stationed in front of a local boutique and was drawn to the patterns, which evoked nostalgia for his past life.</p>
<p>He remembers wandering the huge malls of Dhaka, bickering with shopkeepers to lower the prices so he could bring home gorgeous Bombay sarees for his family. Or working as an assistant in Medinah’s clothing stores, hoping that the hajj tourists hadn’t stocked up on abayas so he could make a sale. They weren’t particularly salient memories, but he does remember studying the intricate designs etched into the fabric, running his fingers over each thread, knowing someone like his parents had sewn them there one by one.</p>
<p>So Cyril splurged and bought the jacket.</p>
<p>He inspects the cuff length of his black jeans in the photo and shifts his feet to compare. Last night he finally cleaned up his Timberlands, and the suede looks spotless. Cyril slowly places his foot back down onto the well-worn carpet.</p>
<p>This is ridiculous.</p>
<p>This is utterly vain and shallow but he’s doing it anyway, because there are no mirrors in this car big enough for him to make sure he looks decent.</p>
<p>Cyril was never one to care about his appearance or the latest trends, because for most of his life there were more important priorities like...practically anything else. He’d often tease Claude for sending him photos the night before big events with a desperate “outfit check?” tagged on. Cyril never put much thought into his responses, commenting with small adjustments to satisfy Claude’s secret need for validation. But Claude would often reply back asking how Cyril even thought to recommend such changes, claiming that they’d make or break his look.</p>
<p>Honestly, Cyril doesn’t know where he picked the skill up. He tends to absentmindedly throw outfits together before he walks out the door, hoping they look presentable. But apparently, at least to Claude, he has a knack for fashion, and ever since he...ever since he joined the campaign, appearance has mattered more to him than before. So here he is. Assessing his mirror selfies.</p>
<p>Like Claude does.</p>
<p>The automatic doors to the lobby hiss open. Lysithea bounds towards the car with a messenger bag slung across her chest. Cyril immediately jumps out and rushes to the passenger side. Lysithea goes in for a hug but Cyril lifts her easily, and he laughs as she squeaks feebly, wrapping her arms tightly around him to anchor herself. Their laughter reverberates around the mini tunnel created by the building’s lobby, a delightful song that Cyril feels like he hasn’t heard for an eternity. It doesn’t matter to him that he sees Lysithea almost every day—because simply being in her presence is enough to brighten his spirits and warm his heart. He spins a couple of times before setting her down gently, both still tangled up in each other.</p>
<p>“How are you doing, mishti?” Cyril asks, rubbing noses with Lysithea. She kisses the tip of his nose.</p>
<p>“You’re so silly, Cyril. I’m doing fine. I stayed up late working on a policy brief, which is why I slept in. I’m sorry about that...especially since we’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.” Lysithea checks her bag for a rough inventory of shiny flyers and brochures with Claude’s immaculate face on them. Cyril’s expression is befuddled, and he snaps the bag shut for her.</p>
<p>“We are not canvassing on your birthday, Lysithea.” Cyril states plainly.</p>
<p>“Cyril! Pleeeaasse don’t do this. I told you not to plan anything big for me!” She whines.</p>
<p>Lysithea sidesteps to try and open the car door, but Cyril is quicker and blocks her hand. He leans against the metal frame and pulls her into his embrace, nestled between his legs. Enough with all this election talk, Cyril wants to get a better look at his lover.</p>
<p>She’s dressed in a lavender tweed jacket and black turtleneck, with matching gray high-waisted trousers and some chunky oxfords to give her some height. Their faces are close enough for Cyril to notice the hint of mascara and lipstick as she stares back at him expectantly, her eyebrows creased.</p>
<p>“But you look so handsome. I need to show you off to the world,” Cyril pleads teasingly.</p>
<p>Lysithea had no need to wear blush makeup today. “You can do that while we door-knock. We shouldn’t waste time.”</p>
<p>“Celebrating you is not a waste of time. But I’ll tell you what. We’ll canvass today, but under one condition.” Cyril pulls up the door-knocking app after taking one look at Lysithea’s skeptical face. “We go to my neighborhood. No-one from the campaign has gone there yet.”</p>
<p>The map information comes as a surprise to Lysithea, and she leans into Cyril to get a better view of his screen. Sure enough, Cyril’s entire block is highlighted. She darts him a suspicious look but pushes herself off him and readjusts her bag.</p>
<p>“Fair enough. Let’s get going, then,” she concedes, assuming a professional tone. Cyril smirks and swings the car door open for her, and she hops in.</p>
<p>As he closes the door, he scans the tall windows once again, almost defiantly. Their reflective surface stings his eyes, like they’re punishing him for even laying eyes on one of “theirs.” It’s as though there are a hundred eyes on him at once, reprimanding him, telling him to go back to where he—</p>
<p>The other door closes and the music is lowered to a distant hum. The windows roll up and the car rolls out.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>This section of Queens is familiar to Lysithea since she visits Cyril so often, but she’s never had the chance to <em>experience</em> the rest of it. So today would be the most efficient way to both interact with Claude’s constituents and gain a better understanding of his congressional district. Not to mention to spend some quality time with Cyril...but of course the task at hand is more pressing, requires more attention. She’s doing this for <em>him</em>, really. After all, between the three directors, Cyril’s the one who wants Claude to win the most.</p>
<p>The car whirrs to a silence and Cyril breathes out forcefully through his nose.</p>
<p>“Someone took the parking spot in front of my building, so I guess we’ll have to walk a bit. Or would you rather I drop you off and catch up to you?” Cyril turns to Lysithea, his arm resting loosely on the steering wheel.</p>
<p>“N-No, of course not, I can handle a little walking! We’ll be on our feet all day, this is nothing,” Lysithea sputters, and Cyril shrugs, stretching behind to grab his backpack from the back seat.</p>
<p>He opens the door for her and they begin walking up a rather steep slope. Immediately, she is hit with wafts of savory, smoky food, and half-considers giving in to Cyril’s initial plan for them to ditch canvassing just so she can follow the scent. This parking lot is behind Cyril’s building, Lysithea recalls, but she doesn’t remember it being such a pain to climb.</p>
<p>“So what was the policy brief that you finished yesterday, Sith?” Cyril asks, just a few paces ahead of her.</p>
<p>“It was about Claude’s economic plan. It’s basically about what he’ll do to reduce loopholes that corporations use to cheat their way out of paying taxes, plus some other stuff about taxing the ultra-rich,” Lysithea explains hastily. It was simplifying the matter, but Lysithea didn’t want to bore Cyril to hell and back with economic jargon.</p>
<p>“Ohh yeah, that stuff about tax brackets, right? It was called...wealth tax, I think,” Cyril contemplates the phrase, unsure of its correctness. Lysithea perks up.</p>
<p>“Yes, exactly! The wealth tax. It also involves the marginal tax rate, which increases as income does, so it wouldn’t apply to the average American household. So if someone’s earning 1 million, their one-million-and-first dollar would have the new rate applied to it,” Lysithea says, skipping to keep up with Cyril. She should minimize her monologuing. Cyril nods thoughtfully, and Lysithea can’t tell if what she’s saying is making any sense.</p>
<p>Economics is all gibberish to her anyway, and she doubts she’s explaining it correctly. Dimitri would’ve easily come up with some fantastical analogy to demonstrate the concept, she’s sure. Supposedly one should understand something well enough to be able to teach another person, so she’s probably failed miserably in that department.</p>
<p>“That’s good to know. Most of the people who live here are middle- to lower-class, so that could be something we bring up with them. You’re so smart, Lysithea,” he says, grinning over his shoulder.</p>
<p>She beams back at him, pumping her fist. Something she can talk about with voters! And not sound like a textbook! Not that she was worried about connecting with others, no. She’s done fieldwork before, so this shouldn’t be difficult or stressful at all.</p>
<p>At last, the pair hits the corner of the block, and Lysithea does her best to quiet her breathing so Cyril doesn’t hear her. He turns to her and outstretches his hand, asking “You good?” She exhales deeply before nodding eagerly, and they link hands and proceed down the street. Both of them have the canvassing app open on their phones, and they evaluate a number of different routes to see which would be the fastest.</p>
<p>But within minutes, Cyril recognizes someone and flags them down. He greets the aunty with an Americanized “‘Slamalaikum!” and she coos over him, bombarding him with statements like how he needs to eat more and how he’s become such a fine young man. The corners of Lysithea’s mouth turn upward softly as she admires the interaction. Familiarity brings out the best in Cyril, and he smiles brightly and chats with the aunty, effortlessly blending Bangla and English.</p>
<p>As Lysithea watches the scene play out, a heat rises in her chest and cheeks, a mix of love and pride. It’s not just language Cyril can synthesize. Cyril seems to have figured out the perfect fusion of Bangladeshi and American. He knows exactly how to act, what to say, how to engage and ask questions. Even his outfit—a trendy mix of Queens staples with Bengali flare—lets people know he fits right in. He is exactly where he belongs.</p>
<p>The talking points come naturally to him after hundreds of hours of navigating the phonebanking script. Cyril waves his hands like a late-night host, energetically hyping up Claude and his ideas and everything he stands for and what his win would mean for the Bronx and Queens.</p>
<p>The aunty nods her head, replying to Cyril in a foreign tongue. He thanks her with a hug and sends her off with a wave.</p>
<p>“Well, at least that’s one voter we can count on,” he says proudly. Lysithea grabs his arm and bounces up and down, her bag lagging behind and throwing her off-balance. Cyril steadies her and laughs.</p>
<p>“Cyril, that was incredible! Any onlooker would think you do fieldwork for a living. You were born to do this!” She exclaims.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just me working with what I know. And who I know. And I wouldn’t know anything if it weren’t for your policy writing to base the scripts off of,” Cyril says, still holding her waist and tugging her ever so slightly closer.</p>
<p>He can never take a compliment straight, can he?</p>
<p>Lysithea asks how they should be recording voter encounters, but Cyril waves dismissively at the phone app. He reckons they’ll cover more ground meeting people this way, and instead, they’ll update the app in batches. He’ll reassess if they’re not meeting their benchmark.</p>
<p>And reassess they do. Within another couple of minutes, they run into an uncle who’s stopped outside an apartment building. Cyril gives him a warm “Kemon aso!” while Lysithea quickens her step to keep up, fumbling through her bag for a brochure to give.</p>
<p>“Bhalo, bhalo thakchi. Thumra ki korcho?” The man asks, flipping the laminated sheet in his hands.</p>
<p>“Khalid bhaier junne kaj korchi, Congresser junne. Actually—” Cyril turns to Lysithea with a huge grin on his face. She can only stare blankly back. Cyril has clearly struck gold on an idea, but has he maybe forgotten that she can’t speak a lick of Bangla? Lysithea shifts her eyes and tries to match his energy with a tight-lipped smile.</p>
<p>“Amra unir shathe bhithore jethe parbo?” Cyril’s voice is bright and giddy, and the older man tilts his head, a kind of sideways nod that Lysithea has picked up on by being around desi people enough. She backtracks: she could never be around them enough. She’s got a lifetime of learning ahead of her, filled with social cues and bits of language she must decipher.</p>
<p>“Obushoi! Asho, asho.” The uncle jangles his keys and opens the door to the building, and Lysithea’s eyes widen, realization setting in.</p>
<p>They’d be able to interact with so many more voters this way. You can’t get into these buildings without personal access, and people won’t refuse to open the door to someone they’re familiar with.</p>
<p>That’s how they spend the rest of the day: weaving in and out of apartment buildings by the grace of Cyril’s aunties and uncles opening doors for them, making canvassing much easier than painstakingly ringing each doorbell from the outside and hoping the tenant would answer.</p>
<p>Despite this newfound advantage, Lysithea finds herself struggling to communicate. Her monologues are a lot less coherent than Cyril’s, and she slips so easily into academic terms that she has to backtrack, wasting additional time explaining terms she should have made clear from the start. This exact scenario happens at least another dozen times, with Lysithea racking her brain for something, anything relevant to share.</p>
<p>Isn’t fieldwork supposed to get easier with practice? She wrote the damn policy, shouldn’t she know how to talk about her own ideas? With each new brown face, Lysithea grows more and more reticent, letting Cyril do the heavy-lifting interactions. At the end of each of Cyril’s spiels, all Lysithea can do is smile weakly at the individual, hoping she doesn’t mess that up.</p>
<p>It comes as a great surprise when Cyril’s friend’s neighbor’s cousin (she’s lost track, really) turns from Cyril to her and asks, “And what about you?”</p>
<p>Lysithea blinks slowly, processing the acknowledgement of her existence. “And what about me?” she replies obtusely.</p>
<p>“Are you ‘friends’ with Cyril?” She interprets the hidden meaning behind the words easily. The question may have been in English, but there is some unspoken, indiscernible language behind those words that she is afraid to answer, in fear of unwittingly exposing Cyril.</p>
<p>Her eyes widen a fraction of an inch. She looks over to Cyril pleadingly, trying to get a read of his face. His amber eyes are wider than hers, and his gaze shifts rapidly between Lysithea and his elder. The tiniest sweat droplet forms on her forehead and she grips the strap of her bag tightly, her knuckles turning white. Probably whiter than she feels right now.</p>
<p>“I’m Claude’s political director. I also work for the campaign,” she says gracelessly, and slices the tension with the edge of the flyer. They take the flyer and give a small “hm” before giving Cyril a farewell and an awkward bowing of the head to Lysithea. As soon as there’s enough distance between them, the couple turns to each other.</p>
<p>“Sith—”</p>
<p>“Cyril I’m so—”</p>
<p>“No, Lysithea, it’s my fault. That was a mess; I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“That was definitely all on me. I’m not— it’s not that— I’m not embarrassed to date you, Cyril. If that’s what you’re thinking. But they just caught me off guard and I don’t...I’m not fully aware of all the cultural norms around romance for you which is again, fully my fault—”</p>
<p>“It’s not at all your fault. I should’ve said something. I’m not ashamed to date you either, but when they asked that, I panicked, like—”</p>
<p>“Like when you see someone you know and immediately drop my hand?”</p>
<p>Lysithea instantly regrets her words and her body chills to ice. The blood drains from Cyril’s face and he runs his fingers through his hair nervously.</p>
<p>“That’s...yeah, like that,” he says slowly. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.” He shifts his hands into his pockets, like the shame is seeping into his bloodstream, resignedly controlling him.</p>
<p><em>She</em> shouldn’t have said anything. Cyril wouldn’t do something like that intentionally; she should know that by now.</p>
<p>There are so many things that Lysithea should <em>know by now</em> and it’s frankly unacceptable that she hasn’t caught up. Her work, both on the campaign and as a better partner to Cyril, demands that she understand a world foreign to her own. But Lysithea is out of her element, an intruder.</p>
<p>She can imbibe every possible novel, biography, anthology, she can commit Cyril’s legal case to memory, but she will never find the words to relate to these people, Cyril’s people. This borough is so quintessentially Cyril’s. The culture, the norms, the language she cannot grasp, just as Cyril’s hand slips so easily out of hers.</p>
<p>Cyril shifts his feet, the gold embroidery of his jacket catching the light of the afternoon sun. She’s swept with a sudden urge to wrap herself in his arms, pull their bodies close so she can trace her fingers across the precise stitching of his jacket. Lysithea squashes the thought. She can’t be so careless, ruining his reputation around here when that’s his biggest asset.</p>
<p>“It’s considered immodest to show physical affection in Bangladesh. I guess it’s become instinctual for me. I know that’s no excuse for how I made you feel.” Cyril takes one hand out of his pocket and intends to reach for her hand, but hesitates. “I’m sorry, Lysithea.”</p>
<p>It was childish of her to broach the subject. The horrors Cyril has shared with her still haunt her. She sees just how deep they’ve wounded him when she notices him wince at loud noises, or sit completely still after finishing his prayer, staring ahead at nothing, consumed by thoughts, memories. He has told her before, about how police would raid places where queer men congregated, about his clandestine meetings with potential boyfriends. No one could know about his identity, no one could be trusted, nowhere was safe to be intimate.</p>
<p>Yet he is absolving Lysithea, and that ignites an indignant flame in her.</p>
<p>“You have nothing to apologize for, I’m the one acting like a brat,” she says crossly, folding her arms.</p>
<p>Cyril shakes his head, his brown curls bouncing. “Saying what’s on your mind isn’t you being a brat. Bangla culture is super conservative. I shouldn’t be bringing that into our relationship.”</p>
<p>“How could you say such a thing, Cyril?!” Lysithea cries, grabbing his forearm and shaking it uselessly. “Your culture is who you are. <em>I’m</em> the one who should be trying harder for you.”</p>
<p>His body tenses against her grip. “What are you supposed to do for me?”</p>
<p>“I’m supposed to be helping you, but all I do is mess up! I don’t know anything about being Bangla—”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s not your job to know my world—there’s a reason I left it behind. But you trying your best is enough for me. Plus, we have the rest of our lives to learn from each other. So let me take care of everything.”</p>
<p>Lysithea unclenches her hands, releasing Cyril.</p>
<p>“Your world doesn’t disappear because you’ve left it. It’s a part of you, and I don’t want you to change it or hide it, okay? Even if we have to work things out.”</p>
<p>“There are some things you don’t want to know about me,” Cyril starts, avoiding her gaze. “But I appreciate how much you care about my culture. I want to be better for you, Lysithea. So I’ll keep trying, too.”</p>
<p>He lightly airs out his thin t-shirt, contemplating next moves for the duo.</p>
<p>“Hey. Let’s rest a little from canvassing. I think we could both use a break,” Cyril suggests.</p>
<p>Now that Lysithea thinks about it, they’ve been on their feet all day and have worked straight through lunch. The direct sunlight is beginning to give her a headache, and she can feel a permanent impression of her bag’s strap digging into her chest.</p>
<p>Her eyes snap to where Cyril motions to follow, and he outstretches his palm.</p>
<p>“Do you wanna hold my hand?” His voice is small, humble, and his smile is tired, but sincere. Even that simple question has Lysithea’s heart pounding out of her chest. She wordlessly takes his hand and they entwine their fingers, sticky from the sweat and city grime.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>As they make their way back up the blocks they’ve passed, Lysithea finds herself recognizing particular landmarks. She recognizes the weathered awning and kitschy neon signs of the ice cream shop where Cyril first took her on a date. Her eyes follow the lazy gait of a tortoiseshell cat who slips into a convenience store that she and Cyril frequent for late-night snacks. After this long day, she feels like she’s grown at least a little familiar with the borough, and she excitedly taps Cyril’s arm to get his attention.</p>
<p>“I remember passing that bubble tea place! Is it any good?”</p>
<p>Cyril’s eyebrows furrow at the pastel storefront.</p>
<p>“Beats me. That shop hasn’t been here for long. It used to be a family-run restaurant, actually. Best Cuban food in Queens.”</p>
<p>Lysithea feels Cyril’s grip stiffen, and while his voice masks his mood, she knows what he’s thinking.</p>
<p>“Oh... Queens is getting hit with gentrification pretty badly, right?” Lysithea asks softly. Cyril nods.</p>
<p>He can point out every street corner, every bodega or salon, with a brief story about the family that accompanies it. Cyril seems to know everything that goes on with everyone else in town. Certain businesses beloved to the community have gone under, but there’s been little to nothing they can do about the situation. The rent keeps getting higher, the price of living more costly, and the cultural identity of the town erodes before their eyes.</p>
<p><em>But if Claude wins…</em> Lysithea thinks. If Claude wins. That’s the phrase she repeats over and over in her mind, every time drifting off at the end. The future is so uncertain. But if Claude wins, things could be a tiny bit better, right? She hopes so. At least for Cyril’s sake.</p>
<p>“Where are we going, again?” Lysithea asks. She’s lost track of how long they’ve been walking in this direction. Cyril’s mouth curls into a tiny smile, like he has remembered a silly secret about her and doesn’t want to share it yet.</p>
<p>“I thought we could freshen up at my apartment. We campaigned all day, and you deserve to be taken care of. After all, today is your special day,” Cyril says, nudging her affectionately and kissing the crown of her head.</p>
<p>Lysithea leans into him instinctively, welcoming his touch. She does concede that she’s earned a bit of rest, but only as a reward for working today. Despite the tiresome labor, Cyril has made today as easy as possible for her, taking the reins when she stumbled in fieldwork and finessing new canvassing strategies to reduce the performance anxiety of greeting constituents. In his own way, Cyril has faithfully demonstrated his love for her, even if they encountered some hiccups along the way. Lysithea is suddenly lovestruck for him all over again.</p>
<p>A warmth blooms in Lysithea’s chest, and she tries to not let herself get carried away with her salacious thoughts. We’re going to his apartment to rest up, she reasons, which means they will probably relax, eat some food, and listen to some music. Most probably.</p>
<p>She glances at Cyril as he resumes explaining rent control, or rent stabilization? Lysithea cannot for the life of her remember the different terminologies, when all she can really pay attention to is the way Cyril’s strawberry-colored lips shape and reshape into words she cannot hear anymore.</p>
<p>If she kisses them right then, she wonders if he’ll taste like that mango balm he lent her the other day, which was certainly because she left her travel bag at home and not because she wanted to know what product he uses. His fluffy eyelashes flutter gently, and the only thing she wants is to hold their faces close together, so she can burn every centimeter of his features into her mind.</p>
<p>Cyril leads her up the winding stairwell, and her knees are turning to jelly, surely from the exhaustion and not from her nerves. They’ve definitely passed Cyril’s apartment door by now though, and all Lysithea wants is to collapse into his bed. Among other things.</p>
<p>Lysithea doesn’t expect what she sees beyond the rusty-looking door at the end of the stairs.</p>
<p>The entirety of Queens is bathed in an orange glow. Gleams of the sun’s rays bounce off car hoods and windows alike. In the distance, the Manhattan skyline is hazy with dusty blue clouds obfuscating the peaks of buildings, and the swirling clouds flood the sky like waves crashing over and over on the shore.</p>
<p>“You must be exhausted, but I knew I had to bring you here. I’m glad we made it in time,” Cyril says breathlessly. He releases Lysithea’s hand to rest his forearms against the railing. She does the same, and leans her head against Cyril’s shoulder.</p>
<p>They can hear the distant growl of engines and the muffled conversations of strangers from so many stories below. Now that the sun is setting, a familiar chill returns to the air, but Lysithea doesn’t mind. Cyril’s body heat is enough to keep her warm so she can chase the outlines of the cityscape with her eyes. The oranges melt away to pinks and indigos, leaving speckles of stars to peek through the twilight.</p>
<p>“Cyril, you really love Queens, don’t you?” Lysithea asks, unprompted, but it’s really more of a statement. Cyril doesn’t say anything at first, content gazing over his scene, his kingdom, his home. <em>Perhaps someday, our home,</em> Lysithea amends fondly.</p>
<p>“I love Queens as much as I love you, Lysithea.” Lysithea lifts her head to look at Cyril, and she’s sure the stars are twinkling in his golden eyes.</p>
<p>The sun waits completely frozen in its descent. Time has come to a standstill. Cyril closes the gap between them and catches his lips in hers. Lysithea feels like she’s falling, and Cyril holds the small of her back firmly, as if the idea of them together could vanish like the sunset before them.</p>
<p>She flicks her tongue against Cyril’s teeth, testing his boundaries, and he graciously lets her in. The smooth and sweet citrus flavor of his chapstick floods her senses.</p>
<p>With him, Lysithea doesn’t need to pretend to know. She doesn’t have to be the expert on domestic policies or understand everything about him to know that her heart burns so brightly, for Cyril, her Cyril. That their love isn’t defined by any zip code or border, that they can exist in a space that they build on their own, is more than Lysithea could ever ask for.</p>
<p>He feels like fire under her fingertips, and all she can do is pull him closer, closer. She is utterly and irresistibly drawn to him, his flame is the only thing she knows and wants to know.</p>
<p>The taste of mango fades from her lips as they break away, still wrapped up in each other. Lysithea shivers. She’s not sure if this is from the heat running through her body, or the rooftop winds.</p>
<p>“Hey...wanna go back to my place now? I could warm you up,” Cyril says, pressing their bodies together. He states it so frankly that Lysithea is having trouble parsing out his meaning.</p>
<p>Add that to the list of things Lysithea has lost in translation today.</p>
<p>“Haha um...like what?” Lysithea replies, dumbfounded. The physical contact dizzies her, and all she can do is bask in Cyril’s presence, waiting hungrily for his next words.</p>
<p>“How about some chaa, for starters. And maybe something more, if you want?” Cyril pulls away and Lysithea immediately misses his embrace, the only warmth radiating between them when he takes her hand.</p>
<p>“Something sweet, perhaps?” Lysithea’s voice shakes as she tries to play along, and she curses the cold weather.</p>
<p>Cyril laughs lightly and tugs her back to the exit, the wind whipping his curls out of his face.</p>
<p>“Only for you,” he purrs, turning back to admire Lysithea with half-lidded eyes. Lysithea feels her heart jump into her throat, and she squeezes his hand tighter, anchoring herself with his presence.</p>
<p>The descending flights of stairs fly by Lysithea in a blur, and she feels her energy heightening each step closer to his front door. They clutch each other’s palms tightly as their laughter echoes through the creaky stairwells.</p>
<p>Out of breath, they finally arrive and Cyril presses a chaste kiss to Lysithea’s forehead as he fishes through his pockets for his keys. He goes to turn the key, and his eyebrows crease. Lysithea does the same.</p>
<p>“Is everything alright?” Lysithea asks. Cyril twists the doorknob confusedly.</p>
<p>“It’s already open. Did I forget to lock the door this morning?” He stares mutely between his lanyard and the door.</p>
<p>Surely Cyril has misperceived his senses. Maybe his head is too full with the next few hours (or more) he’ll be spending with Lysithea. There’s no way he’d let something like that slip. So Lysithea charges in anyway.</p>
<p>“I’m sure it’s okay Cyril, let’s just go in—” Before he can stop her, she swings the door open and both stand in the doorway, completely dazed.</p>
<p>“HAPPY BIRTHDAY LYSITHEA!!”</p>
<p>A giant figure leaps out from behind one of the couches, and another emerges from Lysithea’s periphery rattling off every possible annoying party noisemaker. Lysithea narrows her eyes.</p>
<p>Claude just lost a dozen voters from this building in the last five seconds. She turns to Cyril with the biggest, brattiest pout. “Did you know about this?”</p>
<p>Cyril is looking as exasperated as her. “BHAIYA?! And Dimitri?! What the hell are you doing here?!”</p>
<p>Claude puts down his plastic kazoo with the utmost care and promptly swings his arms around both of them. Somehow being squished up against Cyril like this doesn’t feel the same as it did on the rooftop.</p>
<p>“The same reason you’re here: to celebrate our brilliant, hardworking political director logging another year for the books!” Claude grins, nuzzling his stubble into Cyril’s cheek, eliciting a groan. Dimitri steps forward as though he intends to join the group hug, though he hovers a few feet away. Like he doesn’t want to rub salt in the wound.</p>
<p>“Yes, Claude proposed a wonderful idea that we all reconvene here for some necessary jubilance, since Cyril requested to canvass in Queens today!” Dimitri exclaims. His words click for Lysithea and she throws daggers at Cyril.</p>
<p>“Hey! You told me you weren’t planning anything for me!” Cyril shrugs tensely, unable to move much thanks to Claude.</p>
<p>“We still got a lotta work done, didn’t we?” His toothy grin makes him easy to forgive. Claude releases them and places his hands on his hips.</p>
<p>“Cyril’s a schemer too, you know. He orchestrated the entire thing. What’s more, he refused to tell me the majority of it... So I took matters into my own hands!”</p>
<p>Cyril gives Claude a dead-eye stare, folding his arms in a serious manner.</p>
<p>“It seems I’ve been out-schemed by my own brother.” He states with a quiet but burning irritation. Claude only smirks and throws up his hands in a generous shrug.</p>
<p>“I have nooo idea what you’re talking about, Cyru. In any case, I <em>am</em> the master schemer, so I suppose my plans will reveal themselves to me in good time. But for now, let’s get on with the grand finale: Dima, will you do me the honor?”</p>
<p>Claude swivels on his heels and leans backwards in an almost cartoonishly exaggerated level to peak at Dimitri from Cyril’s kitchen.</p>
<p>“Gladly, Claude!” He calls back. “Lysithea, this part requires you to close your eyes. Would it inconvenience you to do that for us?”</p>
<p>She snorts a little at the spectacle of it all, but does as requested. Gently, a familiar hand takes her own and steadies her back as she walks the brief distance to the table.</p>
<p>“You can open your eyes now, Sith,” Cyril murmurs into her ear, his soft breath warming a tuft of her hair. Lysithea opens her eyes.</p>
<p>The team has dimmed the lights. A decadent golden-brown cake has been placed in front of her, decorated with a creamy white frosting and earthy green chopped pistachios. Round, darker brown orbs form a ring around the delicacy. Lysithea looks closer to inspect the mysterious ornaments, their hue flickering in the candlelight. She’s certain she’s seen something like this before, but where—</p>
<p>“Gulab jamun cheesecake, prepared just for you!” Cyril chirps proudly. “It’s from a bakery in Queens. I made a special request since they don’t make this often.”</p>
<p>Lysithea stares down at the cake, watching the tiny flames wave at her. Her blazer feels damp against her skin, and her shoulders are shaking. Another year of her life is complete, and what does she have to show for it? Everything, her work on the campaign, her newfound love, is it really her own? Does someone who so spectacularly fumbles and under-performs deserve all this fanfare?</p>
<p>An enunciated clearing of the throat disrupts her thoughts before she can proceed any further. Claude makes a big swoop with his open hands and gestures to the cake.</p>
<p>“My liege, your dessert—and birthday wish—awaits you,” he says in a stuffy, mock-British accent.</p>
<p>Cyril, ever so in-tune with her body language, places a hand on her shoulder.</p>
<p>“You know all of us are glad to be here with you. This campaign would be nothing without your research, not to mention your excellent social media presence for Claude bhaiya.” This elicits a chuckle from the team.</p>
<p>“And well...you know how I feel about you.” As expected, Claude pounces on the chance to fluster them both.</p>
<p>“Don’t be shy, share it with us!” He jokes, unfazed by the death glares from the couple. Dimitri leans in to make better eye contact with Lysithea, his lofty figure illuminated by the soft warm glow.</p>
<p>“I understand you find it a great privilege to work on a campaign like Claude’s. And we have become better acquainted over the course of this candidacy. But I feel it is my honor to have you on our team, not the other way around. So please, allow us to share this moment with you.” Dimitri smiles, and Claude looks back at him and nods thoughtfully.</p>
<p>Lysithea looks back at the cake. The wax rolls slowly down the candles, and Lysithea doesn’t want the cake to be riddled with their droplets.</p>
<p>Right. The birthday wish.</p>
<p>She digs deep into her mind for her one desire to spend on this precious opportunity. Alleged opportunity. Silly ideas such as birthday wishes, ghosts, and tooth fairies always struck her as childish, impractical, idealistic. But there was no scientific, quantifiable evidence suggesting otherwise, correct? And even if she didn’t believe in such fantasies, the least she could do for her friends is indulge their ceremony for her.</p>
<p><em>My wish…</em> she begins. She becomes acutely aware of her breathing, preparing herself. <em>My wish is for Claude to win. For the Bronx and Queens. For Cyril. For all of us. That’s what I wish for.</em></p>
<p>She takes a deep breath and extinguishes all the candles in one go. She sends a silent message to the council of birthday wishes. They’d better accept her damn wish—or she’ll have a stern word with them next year! Everyone claps, and Dimitri daringly toots a noisemaker. Lysithea shakes her head at him as Claude turns the lights back on. Cyril fetches a knife.</p>
<p>“In Bangla tradition, everyone at the party has to feed you a bite of cake,” Cyril explains.</p>
<p>“We don’t know why. I never asked my dad. Maybe it’s a good luck thing? But it happens at literally every event I’ve been to, so I’ve got three decades of superstition to back me up,” Claude adds, stealthily reaching for a spoon. Cyril stops his hand centimeters before reaching the now-coveted utensil, gripping his wrist tightly.</p>
<p>“Not so fast. I get to feed her first.” He says sternly. Claude’s eyebrows twist into a mixture of doubt and offense. He looks around at a larger, imaginary audience to show their unified disbelief at Cyril.</p>
<p>“Uh, no. In what rulebook is that ever true?”</p>
<p>Cyril and Claude start to bicker about who gets to feed her first, Claude wielding birth order and his position as candidate (two very logical, sound lines of argument) while Cyril swears that it is in fact the romantic partner who gets to feed the birthday individual first. Dimitri brings his hand to cover his face, suppressing laughter and opting to retrieve plates from the kitchen, dodging the fray.</p>
<p>Lysithea does not care who feeds her first in this culturally-specific ritual. If it means more cheesecake for her, then she wouldn’t have it any other way.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for sitting through the whiplash wherein cyril and lysithea haven't even met in the main story (look. they meet in chapter 5. give it two weeks) and here I am publishing an established relationship fic HAHA I write fic out of order which is why the middle of act1 is done before the end of act1 :)a</p>
<p>this is my favorite piece of writing ever and I really wanted to get it out there. cysithea is easily my fe3h otp and this is my love letter to them and to the borough. thanks for reading! </p>
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